


kiss me now you'll catch your death

by thecarlysutra



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, Bruce Banner Has Issues, F/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:42:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>SUMMARY:</b> Natasha has to deal with an assassin on her tail, and to figure out her relationship with Bruce.  On the whole, she'd rather deal with the assassin. <br/><b>AUTHOR’S NOTES:</b> Post-<i>Age of Ultron</i>. Written for the <a href="http://projectromanoff.tumblr.com/post/118375319414/project-romanoff-mini-bang-are-you-a-fic-writer">2015 Project Romanoff Mini Bang</a>.  Title from Natalie Merchant's “My Skin”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	kiss me now you'll catch your death

  
I.

0300 hours. Natasha Romanoff padded barefoot through the dark rooms of her apartment to the kitchen. She was in her pajamas—a man's undershirt a couple sizes too big and a pair of nude silk underwear—and, as she yawned and stretched, her arms reached up over her head, pulling up her pajama shirt to bare her stomach. Her footsteps were silent; the carpet insulated the noise somewhat, but she had also learned to leave no trace of her presence.

Natasha let the light of the refrigerator bathe her as she retrieved a bottle of water from her near-empty fridge. She took a swig, closed the door.

And then some bastard came crashing through the French doors leading out to the patio. Glass rained down on Natasha; she hit the tile floor, protecting her head, dropping her water bottle. Natasha rose up into a crouch, the spilled water cold on her knees, blood warm on her face and her hands. 

There was a figure silhouetted in the streetlight filtering in through the broken doors.

“The great Black Widow,” the silhouette said. The voice was female, with a slight Germanic accent, “and I catch her in her underwear.”

“If I'd known you were coming,” Natasha said, “I would have gotten dolled up.”

The woman took a step toward Natasha. Natasha couldn't see the woman's face, but she caught the gleam of silver in the woman's hand—a knife.

“I prefer this,” the woman said. “I—”

She was cut off when Natasha sprang, hurtling her body into the woman's, grabbing for the knife hand. Close up, Natasha could see aspects of the woman's appearance: tan skin, dark hair and eyes, full mouth. Quite pretty, really, for someone who had broken into your house to kill you. She looked a bit like that cooking show host, Kelly something. No one Natasha recognized. The woman cried out in frustration as Natasha took the wrist of the knife hand, kneeing the faux Kelly in the stomach. Kelly writhed, trying to buck Natasha off her; Natasha held fast, banging the knife hand against the tile floor until the hand opened up and the knife went flying across the floor. 

Kelly flipped them; the back of Natasha's head banged against the floor, and Kelly grabbed her hair and pulled her head up just to shove it hard into the floor again. Natasha dug her nails into the woman's arm, and kicked up until she had dislodged her. Kelly flew to her feet, followed quickly by Natasha. Natasha grabbed for a knife from the block on the counter; Kelly took one look at the blade in Natasha's hand and went running for gaping hole that had previously been Natasha's French doors. Natasha threw the knife at her retreating back; it stuck in the wall, and the woman escaped into the night before she could retrieve it.

Natasha took a deep breath, released it, and then let her weight fall to the wall as she wiped blood out of her eyes. 

***

“You could have been killed,” Steve said, pressing a compress to Natasha's temple.

She felt the urge to roll her eyes, but managed to contain herself—but only because Steve was using his Worried Voice. “I'm aware of that, Rogers. That's why I came here. That and there's now a pretty serious draft in my apartment.”

Steve didn't look amused. He put down the compress and picked up a bandage. 

“You should be more careful,” he said, and spread the bandage over the cut on her forehead.

“We're constantly almost dying,” Natasha said. “Anyway, it's not my fault someone broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.” 

“You should have an alarm or something,” Steve said, but sheepishly.

“Can we call in the cavalry?” she asked. “Because I'd like to find out who's trying to kill me. Just for my own peace of mind.”

“How are we going to find her?” Steve asked, but he was pulling out his cell phone to call the members of the team not currently in Asgard.

“We have this,” Natasha said, and held up the assassin's knife.

***

Tony peered through the lens of the microscope. Steve looked over his shoulder.

“What can you tell us?” Steve asked.

“It appears to be a knife,” Tony said, waiting until Steve's lip curled to add, “stainless steel, lockback, some serration on the blade. All of that's fairly standard—”

“So why did we call you in?” Steve asked.

“I was just getting to that, Cap. What's interesting is the stamp on the blade. It's an eagle—”

“Austrian army?” Clint asked.

“Way to steal my thunder,” Tony said. “Yes, that would be my guess as well.”

“Austria?” Steve said. “HYDRA?” 

Natasha sighed. “When is it _not_ HYDRA?”

“But why would they want to kill you?” Clint asked.

“Aside from the fact that she helped dismantle HYDRA-controlled S.H.I.E.L.D. and now all her covers are blown so she's no longer protected?” Steve said. “I can't imagine.”

Tony poked Steve in the chest. “Hey. Sarcasm is my thing.” 

“Shockingly,” Natasha said, “this is not making me feel any better.” 

“Right,” Tony said. “I can do an image search with the eagle cross-referenced with similar attacks—”

“Or I can look into it,” Clint said. “You know, with actual sources, not digital ones.”

“We can do both,” Steve said. “Let's just find this guy.”

“Lady,” Natasha said.

“Bitch,” Clint said. Natasha arched an eyebrow; Clint added, “They try to kill my friend, they're a bitch.”

“Works for me,” Tony said. 

 

II.

Steve offered her his couch, but Natasha decided to pack a bag and take up temporary residence in the dorms in the Avengers facility. She unpacked, then sat on the edge of the small bed and brooded a little. What she really wanted to do was find and pummel her would be assassin, but at present there wasn't a target to tilt at. She had to wait, which was the worst thing for her. There was comfort in action; inertia cut like a knife.

Natasha went to the gym. She spent a little time on the treadmill, did a little weight work. She took a long, steamy shower and then walked slowly back up to her room. She got to her door, and stopped. The door was cracked, and she knew she had closed it all the way when she'd left. Natasha cursed her lack of a weapon—no place to keep a gun in sweatpants—and slowly pushed the door open, muscles tense, ready.

There was a man standing in the middle of her room, Oxford unbuttoned at the collar, pants perfectly ironed, hair slightly ruffled. Natasha's breath left her.

Bruce's face creased with worry. “Natasha. Are you okay?”

Bruce wrung his hands, and looked at Natasha through the shine of light glazing his glasses. Her first impulse was to sock him in the jaw, but she managed to control herself.

“Hi,” he said.

Natasha took a deep breath, let it out slow. She plastered a smile on her face. “So all I had to do to get your attention was to become the target of a world-renowned assassin? If only I'd known earlier.”

“Are you okay?” he asked again, and took a step toward her, and, damn her traitorous body, but Natasha's heart fluttered. 

“I'm fine,” Natasha said.

Bruce's eyes were caught on the bandage on her forehead. Natasha shifted uncomfortably.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Last I heard—well, actually, I haven't heard anything.”

“I heard about what happened. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You could have asked Stark,” she said. “How'd you hear, anyway? It wasn't exactly big news.”

Bruce averted his eyes. “I've been keeping an eye on you.”

“And why would you do that?”

Bruce met her eyes. “You know why.”

“So I warrant surveillance, but not a postcard?”

“Natasha, I did what I did—”

“To protect me, I know,” Natasha said. “But I don't need you to protect me.”

Bruce opened his mouth to speak, but Natasha's phone buzzed. She retrieved it from the nightstand. “Hello?”

“Hey, Nat,” Clint said. “I've got a bead on your new friend.”

***

Tony welcomed Bruce warmly, but everyone else's reception was lukewarm at best. Bruce, for his part, had the decency to look sheepish.

“So,” Clint said, sitting down at the computer. “Is this your girl?”

Natasha came around behind him, her hands on the back of his chair. She looked at the screen, a black and white photograph of a dark, pretty woman with dark eyes and thick, black hair. 

“That's her,” Natasha said. “I mean, I only saw her in the dark, but I usually remember the people who try to kill me. She kind of looks like that cooking show lady... _Bake It til You Make It_ , I think.”

“Oh, yeah!” Clint said. “I love that show.”

“You two watch cooking shows?” Steve asked. 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Tony said, “the knife you grabbed off her is her trademark. Her name is Eva Haid, better known as Garbo. She's an up and comer, the Taylor Swift of assassins.”

Steve frowned. “Who's Taylor Swift?”

“She's on the phonograph, Cap,” Tony said. He turned to Natasha. “Your friend Garbo only has nine confirmed kills—”

“Dilettante,” Clint muttered.

“—but the last three have been high-profile; a sheik's son, some European pop star, and a Dutch politician.”

“So she's just after me to make her bones?” Natasha asked.

“Maybe,” Clint said. “Really, we have no way of knowing. She could be working for HYDRA, or she could be a freelancer.” 

The mugshot shined across Bruce's glasses as he leaned in for a better look. “Why do they call her Garbo?”

Clint squinted at the screen, and then laughed. “Because she only works alone.”

Steve pounced on it. “Yes! Yes.”

Natasha shook her head, but she was smiling. “So, what now?”

“We should get you somewhere safe,” Bruce said.

“Safer than a concrete compound surrounded by military personnel and Earth's mightiest heroes?” Natasha asked.

Bruce relented. “Good point.”

“Well,” Clint said. “I intend to hunt this bitch down and ask her some uncomfortable questions.”

“Bitch?” Bruce said.

“We all decided that anyone who tries to off your would-be girlfriend qualifies as a bitch,” Tony said. “Anyway, I tend to help Cupid here knock on a few doors. You know, with violence.”

“Me, too,” Steve said. “Maybe with slightly less violence.”

“And more _can't we all just get along_ rhetoric,” Tony said.

“Yeah, not that much nonviolence,” Steve said. “She tried to kill my friend. I just don't, you know, plan to kill her to death.”

“Prison is too good for Garbo,” Clint said.

“Maybe,” Steve said. “But I'm not comfortable being judge and jury.”

“What are you going to do, Natasha?” Bruce asked.

She met his eyes. “I think we need to talk.”

***

They went back to Natasha's temporary room in the dorms. Natasha closed the door while Bruce concentrated too hard on polishing his glasses.

“This is … sparse,” Bruce said.

“Are you going to run off again?” Natasha said abruptly.

Bruce turned a little grey, his jaw clenched so hard that a tendon in his cheek strained. 

“I'm no good for you,” he said.

“Don't you think I should be the judge of that? I'm a big girl, you know.”

Bruce's expression softened. He took a step toward her. “I know. You're incredibly competent and capable; I love that about you. But—”

“You love that about me?” 

“I love a lot of things about you,” Bruce said. “You're lovable.” 

Natasha turned her face away. “No one's ever said that to me before.” 

Bruce closed the distance between them. He took her hands in his, gently pulled her toward him. Natasha wasn't used to being led, and she wasn't used to tenderness, but, as Bruce's lips met hers, she realized that she now wanted both. Needed both. And the kiss—the kiss. Like he did anything, Bruce kissed her slow and adeptly and thoroughly. Natasha felt herself get lightheaded, felt herself melting in his arms, and it was good—it was really, really good, and completely worth the wait. 

“I just—” she said softly when they broke off, but then she saw the way Bruce was looking at her, like she was something precious, like she was the answer to the question he'd been asking all his life, and she realized she didn't need to say anything. 

They undressed each other slowly, fingertips and palms slowly exploring exposed skin. Moment by moment, Natasha felt herself quickening. 

Bruce took her in his arms, carrying her to the bed with the same effortlessness as when he was the Other Guy, like she weighed nothing. He laid her out on the bed beneath him, his hands traveling her body, his mouth on her face, her neck, her collarbone. Natasha's back arched as Bruce kissed down her body, her skin prickling, her head swimming. Her fingers in his hair as he parted her legs, his mouth on her sex. Natasha's entire body bloomed, opening like the petals of a spring flower, and she raised her hips in time—everything expanding, waves of pleasure washing over her. 

Bruce came up over her, his body between her legs, and kissed her forehead, her jaw, her breast. Natasha urged him inside of her, Natasha's hands on Bruce's biceps as he moved within her, their mouths together. They rocked together.

***

Natasha and Bruce lay together, tangled up in each other's limbs, Natasha's head on Bruce's chest. Natasha sighed, and listened to Bruce's heartbeat. Ba-bum, ba-bum. 

“So, what do we do now?” Natasha asked.

Bruce ran his fingers lightly through her hair. “I was thinking we'd find the woman trying to kill you, and I go green on her.”

“I meant, like, do you want a snack, or—?”

Bruce gave her a gentle squeeze. “You couldn't pay me to get out of this bed.”

Natasha smiled, and snuggled in.

 

III.

Natasha woke early, sunrise nascent on the horizon. Bruce was still asleep, face first into the pillow, hands balled into fists tucked against his sternum. 

Natasha slipped silently out of bed. She put on some clothes, and went downstairs to procure some breakfast. And coffee. Coffee was important.

Natasha, some bagels, and two cups of coffee returned to the room to find it empty. 

“Bruce?”

No answer. Natasha felt herself flush, rage pumping through her veins. And then something caught her eye: the sunlight caught on a piece of glass. Bruce's glasses, on the floor, broken. A smear of blood stained one lens.

Natasha dropped the coffee.

***

“Wait, slow down,” Clint said. “What do you mean, 'Bruce has been kidnapped'?”

“Exactly what it says on the tin,” Natasha said. 

Clint took her gently in hand, setting his hands on her shoulders and arresting her movement as she charged up the stairs and into the labs. “Nat, listen. Are you sure he didn't just rabbit?”

She held up Bruce's glasses. The blood was still fresh enough to drip.

“Okay,” Clint said, and jogged up the stairs behind her.

Tony was doing something dangerous-looking with a soldering iron while Steve watched, shielding his eyes. 

“Bruce is gone,” Clint said. “We think he was taken by Garbo.”

Natasha held up the glasses. Steve's mouth thinned. “So what do we do?”

“Find him,” Natasha said.

“How?” Steve asked. “We've been looking for Garbo for days, with no luck.”

Tony put down the soldering iron and removed his goggles. “We can't find Garbo, but it'll be easier to find Bruce.”

He slipped off his stool and wandered to some complicated piece of equipment. Natasha followed him.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

Tony started fiddling with knobs on the machine. “Bruce emits gamma radiation. An abnormal amount. All we have to do is find a high concentration of gamma radiation in the surrounding areas, and—”

Natasha's jaw clenched. “You mean all this time you could have found him, and you didn't?”

Tony looked at her for a long moment. “He didn't want to be found.”

Natasha decided to postpone kicking Tony's ass until he'd found Bruce. 

“So, Mr. Roboto,” she said, “do it.”

***

Tony's machine took an interminably long time, but finally it located an odd radiation level in a neighborhood nearby. The team suited up.

“You and I are going to have a talk,” Natasha said to Tony before the group split up.

“Yeah, yeah, Killer Queen. Let's find Banner first, huh?”

Steve took north, Tony took east, and Clint took west, leaving Natasha with south. She fiddled with the Geiger counter Tony had given her and walked along the well-manicured streets. It was pretty, actually. The place normal people could settle down and have a family.

After a while, the Geiger counter's needle started twitching. Natasha investigated a split-level, but unless Bruce was disguised as a yappy little poodle, he wasn't there.

She tapped her earpiece, which was unnecessary but gave the impression, even to herself, that she was doing _something_. 

“Anybody got anything?”

“Negative,” Steve said.

“No,” Clint said.

“Nothing,” Tony said.

Something roiled in Natasha's stomach. It wasn't a sensation she was used to, and it bothered her. She wished she could just tear Garbo's throat out, but she had to find the bitch first. 

***

After what seemed like an eternity, the Geiger counter's needle began jerking near an empty body shop. Natasha's fingertips moved over the familiar surface of her pistol—just a check, just in case—as she scoped out the place. The windows were dark, covered on the inside with some sort of paper. There was something almost familiar about the place: this was, in another life, the sort of place Natasha would have found very useful.

Natasha ditched the Geiger counter, drew her gun, and slowly entered the building.

“I was wondering when you'd join us,” Garbo said. 

She was standing at the back of the garage watching Natasha. Natasha did a quick scan of the room: cars suspended on lifts, work stations littered with tools. It was against one of the latter that Natasha found Bruce; he was on the cement floor, eyes closed; it wasn't clear if he was unconscious or dead. Something tightened in Natasha's chest; her jaw clenched.

She plastered on a smile and approached Garbo. “I would have been here earlier, but my invitation was lost in the mail.”

“I knew you'd find us,” Garbo said. “I actually—this is a little embarrassing—but I'm actually a fan of yours.”

Natasha continued walking toward her. She noticed that Garbo had a sheath on her leg, but the knife was still in there, not in Garbo's hands.

“I'm flattered,” Natasha said. “I'm just getting to know your work.”

Garbo smiled. “Nothing personal, Widow. A job's a job.”

“You work for HYDRA?”

“Please. I'm a contractor.”

“Well, it's a tough economy,” Natasha said, stopping a few yards from Garbo.

Garbo tapped the sheath. “Shall we begin?”

“Love to,” Natasha said. She brought up her gun, and fired one perfect shot. Garbo's eyes fluttered as a dark spot appeared in her forehead; her lips moved slightly as a trail of blood burned down her face. Garbo crumpled to her knees, and then fell. She didn't move.

“Amateur,” Natasha said. She went over and shot twice more, then knelt and checked for a pulse. Nothing.

Natasha remembered lying against Bruce's chest, listening to his pulse. She felt sick.

Natasha hurried over to where Bruce was lying. She checked his pulse; it was weak, but there, beating under her fingers. She exhaled, surprised to find her breath shaking. 

Natasha tapped her earpiece again. “Guys, I need an ambulance.”

***

Bruce lay back against the pillow in the bed in the hospital suite of the Avengers building. He looked worse than he usually did after going green. An IV pumped medicine into his arm to counteract the effects of the sedative Garbo had given him.

“Today would have been a good day for a Code Green,” he croaked.

“Yeah, well, you were indisposed,” Natasha said. “Who knew the Big Guy couldn't deal with Thorazine? Good to know.”

“Yeah, I'll just stay on a continuous drip, and we won't have to worry about the Other Guy anymore,” Bruce said, smiling druggedly. 

“He's not so bad,” Natasha said. “Anyway, I'm glad you're not dead, because I would have had to kill you.”

Bruce chuckled. Natasha looked him in the eye.

“Listen,” she said. “If you take off again, I will shoot you.”

“The Other Guy might not like that.”

“The Other Guy loves me.”

Bruce smiled again. “Well, Natasha, for what it's worth—I do, too.”

“Of course you do,” she said. “A very smart man once told me I'm lovable.” 

Bruce smiled. He reached his hand out for hers; Natasha let him take it. It really wasn't so bad.  



End file.
